


Betrayed

by AmberAkasha



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Angst, Azkaban, Character Bashing, Dumbledore Bashing, Gen, Revenge, Ron Bashing
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2014-02-12
Updated: 2014-05-04
Packaged: 2018-01-12 03:44:06
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 6
Words: 11,958
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1181480
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/AmberAkasha/pseuds/AmberAkasha
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Harry is accused of murder and condemned to Azkaban. And even if he dies in that filthy hellhole, he'll get his revenge on those who back-stabbed him.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Prologue

**Author's Note:**

> This started as a translation for a friend on FanFiction.net (Akasha Sorvolo Riddle). She's now given up on the story and I have adopted it - so it's a bit different from the original.  
> I'll try to update once a week.

Harry stared vacantly at the wall.

It had, a long time ago, been grey, he supposed; but it was now dark brown, almost black in some places, almost yellow in others.

When a prisoner has spent enough time in his cell, staring at the dank stone walls, he can see dreadful faces shouting accusations from the shapeless stains. Sometimes it's the prisoners screaming, faces contorted by pain and insanity and the lack of warmth and light and human contact.

Harry felt cold.

He shouldn't be feeling so cold yet. The thought is distant but nagging, like a pressure at the edge of his consciousness. The dementors aren't supposed to patrol his corridor for another two hours, punctuated by the echoing of the gong-like sound that resonated through the prison twenty-four times a day. No-one was allowed to rest in Azkaban.

Harry is frozen. It's not the cold of the dementors eating him away; no, he is intimately familiar with the bone-deep cold that accompanies them and this isn't it. This bitter cold reaches down to his very soul, hurts in corners of him he'd thought protected. It doesn't come from the terror-inspiring creatures, no; it was born from the proverbial glacial dagger his friends backstabbed him with.

How could they believe him capable of committing such a crime?

How could they abandon him like that? Testify against him?

He doesn't understand. He's been trying to –he thinks he has, but his memory doesn't always work so well these days- but he just can't. They were supposed to be his makeshift family. How could they condemn him to this frozen hell?

Maybe that's the problem. Having a family has never worked well for him, has it?

Slowly, painfully, Harry stops feeling cold.

Laying numb on his cell's stone floor, caged, he stares at the wall, and the accusing faces morph. They stop being his friends'. They are all his face now, screaming endlessly in despair, and suddenly Harry feels something he never thought he'd feel again.

Heat.

Rage, burning inside him, blistering hot. Rage, warming him from the inside out, giving him strength. Rage, against all those who have dared betray him.

'Against them all.' he howls, voice surpassing his own cell and the other prisoners' screams, lips curved in a feral smirk his enemies would do well to fear.

Azkaban stays silent for a moment, as if the prison itself were holding its breath. Not even the most insane prisoners dare utter a word, a shiver running through their bodies.

He'll have his revenge, even if it has to be from the cold confines of Azkaban.

There is a reason he was condemned. A reason he was feared enough they'd held that farce of a trial.

He is a powerful wizard, one of the most powerful their world has ever seen. The only one to match Voldemort in strength, even if they don't know that.

They will soon discover why you should never anger a powerful wizard.

They will soon wish they'd never crossed his path.

* * *

I'd love to hear any feedback you have on this story, and please feel free to share any ideas and/or request you may have for punishments. I already have a few ideas but I'm always happy to include new ones! 


	2. Sirius Black

**Sirius Black**

Sirius' eyes dart around his old childhood bedroom, nervous despite the by now familiar calming potion he'd chugged down with dinner.

He's had the same nightmare, every night, for months now. The nightmares started shortly after Harry was taken by the aurors, and there is nothing he can do to stop them. Dreamless-sleep potions didn't do a thing, there isn't any curse or spell on him, and according to the numerous healers he's visited there is nothing wrong with him aside from a bit of residual malnutrition from his stint in Azkaban.

And yet, when the shadows take the streets and darkness claims the world, he can't help but panic. He fears the moment he goes to sleep, knowing that the nightmares will descend upon him as they once tortured with his ex-godson. The endless dreams – Harry, somehow innocent, demanding an explanation, despising him for what he had done, refusing to even look at him- threaten to drive him crazy. He hasn't had a good night's sleep for months now, hasn't slept a single night without waking drenched in cold sweat, haunted by the nightmares he can still see whenever he closes his eyes.

And this night won't be any different...

 

He was standing at the gates of Azkaban. He didn't need to look to know that, he could tell by the familiar cold, the phantom cloak of the dementors that guarded the prison.

Harry had just been declared guilty and condemned to life imprisonment in the magical prison, in a high security cell. Ten dementors would guard his cell, patrolling in twelve rotations throughout the day. It was one of the harshest punishments outside the Kiss –and perhaps not the most merciful. He would have preferred the Kiss himself, if given half a chance. Nobody had ever survived more than a week in those conditions without going insane, and in the faces of his friends was evident that they knew.

Next to Sirius, an incensed Ron glared at Harry. The redhead had managed to become an auror trainee in his sixth year, as had Hermione, vouched for and helped along by the Order of the Phoenix. Sirius had asked, at the time, why Harry had not been included. He couldn't bring himself to care now. Perhaps it had been for the best. By Ron's side stood the bushy-haired witch, eyes filled to the brim with tears. She couldn't make herself look at the boy she had learned to love as a brother.

At his right the Headmaster never took his eyes from Harry's, the twinkle usually present in them replaced by disappointment and regret. He'd held his words of condemnation, but the pale blue eyes seemed to accuse the boy who had once been his pupil.

They were accompanied by Fudge and Umbridge, in representation of the Ministry of Magic, present to make sure the proceedings were carried without a hitch and looking rather pleased with themselves. Sirius did his best to avoid their vindictive glances.

Harry, already in the grey robes that were the Azkaban uniform, turned around and met his eyes, just before entering the confines of the prison. His godson, the one above all who had made sure Sirius never had to return to that trice-cursed place, and yet it was now his turn to enter the prison, to never leave. Unlike Sirius, he didn't have an animagus form to keep him somewhat sane. Ruthlessly, Sirius reminded himself of something else his godson didn't have: the knowledge that he was innocent of the crimes he'd been accused of. And yet Sirius would never forget that glance, distressed and furious, shocked, that seemed to ask him _Why?_

It always started with that memory, the night Harry was taken to Azkaban.

And then it turned worse, so much worse.

 

Sirius was older now. It had been years since he'd stood by and done nothing while they carted his godson off to prison. And yet he was back, steps hesitant as they disembarked near the doors of the prison. Dumbledore and Sirius had volunteered to come back. It was the least they could do… Too little, too late, but he had to do something. Because he'd been wrong.

Harry was innocent.

There'd been a new inquiry into Harry's case, a few months ago, because someone had found new evidence –he hadn't paid much attention at first, because every few years there seemed to be one and it never amounted to anything. And then, the Wizengamot had granted a full pardon.

Harry was innocent.

That little sentence had been like a bomb going off. Their whole world was thrown into chaos, but Sirius couldn't care less about that.

Harry was innocent.

They didn't stop, movements harried as they entered the prison. They couldn't let him suffer a moment more of that torment. The cold of the dementors penetrated their bones, bringing with it terrible and cutting memories best left forgotten. As they walked towards his godson's cell, the cold seemed to turn harsher, deeper, stabbing his chest with a vicious iciness that made breathing difficult. He kept moving.

'Harry…' he muttered.

Harry had trusted him, and Sirius had betrayed him. He was the traitor. Harry was innocent. He'd been the one who had given away a defenseless boy, _his_ boy, without stopping for a moment to doubt. Unquestioning his guilt, blindly trusting the evidence of his own two eyes. He'd believed him guilty, a murderer, because he had witnessed the deed. Just as he'd been seen, so long ago. How many witnesses had there been, when he'd confessed to the murder of James and Lily?

But Harry was innocent.

They stopped at last in front of a large metallic door. Reinforced and ugly, with a small opening for food. That's what you got in the lower levels. Albus wiped out his wand, movements assured and swift, and touching the door muttered ' _Patefacio-foris_ '.

The door opened with a screech; Albus had to push it the last few inches. Sirius didn't want to look beyond that door, into the filthy cell, bare except for a thin cot and a hole in the floor. Laying face down on the cot was a boy, skeleton-thin. His hair, wild and covered in caked dirt, fell down his back, hopelessly tangled. The robe was torn, barely covering the battered body.

Next thing he knew, he was kneeling next to him, trying to wake him up. 'Harry? Harry, we're here, we're going to take you out.' Sirius' voice was breaking, his breathing harsh, and he didn't know why. 'Harry? Harry please, wake up.'

He grabbed the edge of the rags that covered his godson, hands shaking, and carefully pulled to set him on his back.

Oh god, no.

Lifeless, glazed eyes met his. He felt the image of his godson's emaciated body like a spear through his soul, and in that moment knew he'd never be able to close his eyes without seeing it, as if forever imprinted in the interior of his eyelids.

It was too late. _He_ was too late.

Harry would never leave Azkaban. The prison had killed him.

Harry was innocent.

Sirius couldn't claim his own innocence so readily now, and yet it was him that laid dead, imprisoned between stone walls. He caressed the messy hair, pulling it away from his godson's eyes. The world was blurry and he didn't know why.

He could not ask his godson for forgiveness now. Couldn't beg his forgiveness for doubting him, for standing in the sidelines, never lifting a finger to help him, when he had fought to free his godfather. He could never plead for forgiveness now, for betraying him, like everyone thought he had betrayed James and Lily. He could never ask his godson to forgive him for failing him.

'Harry, my Harry, my little one.' He wept, torn by the guilt that was furiously eating him away. 'What have we done? We sent you to Azkaban, and now Azkaban has killed you.' The sobs racked his body as he hugged the corpse that had once been so full of life. 'No, please, not my Prongslet. No…'

A voice from his back sends shivers through his body, and he stops rocking back and forth. For a long minute, he can't move, can't breathe.

'It wasn't Azkaban, godfather. You all killed me. _You_ killed me.'

'Harry?' the corpse he holds for dear life belongs to his godson, he knows that. And yet, somehow, Harry is in front of him as well, face contorted into a callous expression he has never before seen in him. Sirius takes him in by bits, then all at once; there's a face that seems to be carved in marble, filled with hate; then a body, lean and strong, outlined by an impeccable black and silver robe; the hair, short and wild, is styled just as James used to do his own.

Some distant part of his brain registers the thought that Dumbledore isn't in the cell anymore, but he doesn't care about the old man. This is Harry standing before him, Harry the way he could have been if Lily and James hadn't… the way he'd been if he hadn't been stupid enough to suggest using the rat. Sirius flinches at the glare directed at him, but he can't stop looking.

'Don't ever call me that again.' His youthful face contorted in a disdainful sneer. 'It's Potter to you, Black.'

'Harry, I...' Sirius tries to talk, shaking, ready to beg for forgiveness –it may be his only chance, he knows that, Harry is dead and he can't ever be forgiven but he has to try, because he's alive and that means there is a _chance_ \- only to be cut by Harry.

'I haven't come this far to listen to your pathetic excuses, Black.' The tone is cutting, and Sirius is reminded of Snivellus, the way he used to spit out curses and insult him like he was slicing him with a scalpel, bleeding him out before he realizes he's been hit. 'I bring a message for you, from James. And I must say, I never thought father could be so cruel.' he says, a gruesome smile gracing his lips, delighting in the effect his words have on the ex-convict.

'J-James? But that's impossible, Prongs… Prongs is dead.' _And so are you_ , he thinks, looking at his godson.

'Not anymore. Death isn't unalterable, Black. Surely my _dear_ grandpa has taught you as much, hasn't he?'

Sirius blanches. He knows. Harry knows. His bones ache, he feels cold, frozen to the bone. He doesn't have to look to know that he's once more the skeletal prisoner that once inhabited Azkaban, a mere specter of his former self. He'd never left Azkaban, not really. No-one escapes from Azkaban.

Harry chuckles, amused by the changes and the pallor that has taken over his godfather's shrunken face.

'Yes, my beloved grandfather, Black. Of course I know who he is. But let's concentrate on the message, right? I don't want to endure your presence any longer than I have to.' He extracts something from his robes, movements graceful in a way they'd never been outside the quidditch pitch. Sirius can't see what it is, but then he presses it gently and it floats above his hand, a red glowing orb that brings a chill to Sirius' heart. It glows, and in the cell resonates a voice that was once more familiar to him than his own.

'Padfoot, Wormtail, you are no longer welcome among the Marauders. You are no longer allowed to claim that name. Peter Pettigrew and Sirius Black are hence declared traitors of the worst kind. I withdraw custody of my son, one Harry James Potter, from Sirius Orion Black, to be bestowed instead to one Remus John Lupin, the marauder known as Moony.' The voice seems recorded, monotone, but the words tear into Sirius all the same. _I didn't mean to_ , he wants to scream, but he can't. The voice keeps talking, but where it was dull before it is now threatening, full of hate, and a shiver travels down the ex-prisoner's body. 'Black, if you ever come close to my son, if I ever see you again, I promise you, _I will kill you_. It'll be slow, and painful. I will kill you, Black.' The last name is snarled, like a curse, and Sirius can feel the tears filling his eyes and running like a river through his cheeks until they become lost in his matted hair. Something inside him, always close to shattering but never quite there, breaks. James, Lily, and now Harry. He had failed them all.

_Mother always said I was a disappointment, always said I was a traitor and a screw-up_. The marauders were all he had, a family away from a house filled with old hate and new venom. _Mother was right._

The corpse Sirius holds in his arms moves, washed-out green eyes screaming in pain.

'Godfather.' He calls, voice papery and ancient and pained. 'You killed me. I trusted you, I risked my life for you, and you didn't even try to believe in me, to ask for evidence, for veritaserum, for a real trial.' The eyes don't blink, just stare accusingly into Sirius', and he finds that he can't close his either, can't look away. 'I risked the Kiss for you. And you sent me to Azkaban without even asking. Who is the traitor, Siri?'

'I'm dying.' The other Harry says this dispassionately, kneeling by his side and tracing the other's lightening-shaped scar with his finger, a loving caress. 'I'll soon die, Black, and you will all follow me, because there will be no one left to face Voldemort.' There's a pause, broken only by the corpse's rattling breaths. 'And to think' the healthy Harry says with a bitter smirk, words filled with venom 'that if it had taken just a few hours longer to arrest me, just another two or three hours, I would have killed that bastard. I would have killed the one that is going to destroy those who condemned me.'

'Yes, Padfoot.' Corpse-Harry's tone is cold too, closer to a rasping last breath than to real hate, but still disturbingly cold. 'I was going to kill my last family in this world, just because I thought…I thought that with you as my family I wouldn't need that snake.'

'As you see, I was wrong.' Continues the other, waving his hand in the direction of his dying self.

Green eyes, dull with pain, pierce his own, accusing, their light slowly going out.

'Who's the traitor, Siri? Who is the traitor?'

 

Sirius wakes up, heart beating wildly in his chest, soaked in cold sweat. He can't take his mind off his godson's disdainful stare, the hate in his best friend's voice, Harry's lifeless corpse, coming back from the dead to torment him. He doesn't want to close his eyes and see them again.

He glances at his alarm clock. It's three a.m, and he won't fall asleep again.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'd appreciate any feedback you have on this story, and please feel free to share any ideas and/or request you may have for further punishments.


	3. Albus Dumbledore

**Albus Dumbledore**

Albus closes the door of his office. He does it by hand, whereas once he would have done it with a careless gesture of his hand to guide his magic, but he can't afford to waste his strength like that anymore.

He lets himself fall into his favorite armchair, maroon and gold and fading at the seams, and takes a lemon drop from the bowl on his desk with shaking hands. Eyes closed, he pops it into his mouth, enjoying the momentary relief the simple act brings.

He checks the wards once more, irritated by the necessity of using his wand, and puts up a privacy barriers for good measure before letting himself relax at last. He lets the glamour fall, revealing for all to see –just him and Fawkes now, can't show real weakness to anyone else- the pasty skin and the dark rings beneath his eyes. It's a brief respite, but he can afford no more than that. He can't let anybody know, but those _dreams_ are driving him towards an early grave.

It's not guilt that's eating him–as always, he'd done what had to be done, even if Harry doesn't understand. Leaders have to make the tough calls; he knows that better than anyone. It's not his first and it won't be his last –he will have to face the burden of being the leader of the Light for many years to come, that is, if this dream doesn't finish him first. It's been weeks since he last managed a restful night of sleep, and at his age not even magic can compensate for that. But every time he closes his eyes Harry's accusing face appears before him, as if summoned. Every time he gives into sleep he's there, recriminating the Headmaster for long, interminable hours. And so he wakes, even more exhausted than when he went to sleep.

He can't let the others know of his weakness. It's not good for morale. Albus has a reputation for being infallible that he has to maintain. And that forces him to cast glamour upon glamour, another drain on his already depleted energy. Too many demands on his magic and body; he's on the verge of collapse. But he can't give up the glamours.

With a tired sigh he pinches his nose, wishing the weariness that pounds on his temples would just disappear. He does his best to ignore the terrible headache, long fingers grasping another lemon drop.

He's none the wiser when his eyelids, which have been turning heavier with each breath, slid shut. Without realizing he has once more succumbed to the demands of his body, he is drawn into Morpheus' Arms.

 

Harry, as has become usual, is sitting on a tall rock. Albus frowns; he knows, from past experience, that once he sits the boy will be slightly above him, a detail that never fails to become an itch at the back of his mind, no matter how much he tries to ignore it. All the visitor's chairs at his office are slightly shorter than his, a precaution he cannot bring into this nightmarish world. To the left of the boy rests his sofa, an accurate replica of the one sitting in Albus' own study down to the fraying gold threads, and beside it a small coffee table with the trademark tea set and a red bowl full of lemon drops.

Around them the fog seems alive, curling over the bleak landscape like an enormous monster always ready to strike, drawing shapes over the few blackened trees still standing and giving them an even more phantasmagorical appearance.

He feels the cold creeping up his feet and climbing his body to find its home in his chest, from where it will spread like a sickness of the blood, chilling him to the bone.

This time Harry isn't even looking at him. His vacant gaze is lost in the horizon, watching with eyes unseeing the foggy spirals while his mouth, almost mechanically, forms the words with which this _dream_ , for lack of a better word, always starts.

'Chess master.' That's the only word of acknowledgment. At least it's not an insult, although Albus wonders if he wouldn't prefer that. 'You know, you were one of the worst. No, not _the_ worst; no need to flatter yourself. Top three, that's for sure. You didn't just leave me to the wolfs, a pawn discarded after its value has been exhausted; you covered me in blood and egged them on. Years of manipulation, playing with my life in a complicated web that I only now begin to unravel. Years of molding me to do your bidding. And then you threw me away. Testified against me, when everything I am is the result of your own design. The great Albus Dumbledore dared call me dark and unstable. You said I was dangerous, too powerful, said I had to be reined in. And all along, I was just following the path you had drawn for me in my own blood.' The words start as a murmur, and little by little they rise in volume, until Albus has to consciously stop himself from covering his ears. He can't show weakness, not even here.

Harry turns now to meet his eyes. He liked it better when he didn't have to look into those green flames of hatred.

'Did you have fun watching as the Dursleys scorned me, beat me, made me malleable enough for you to imprint your own image upon me? I really would like to know. I imagine you kept tabs on them, if only to make sure they didn't accidentally kill me before you were ready for me to die. Did you enjoy one of your lemon drops while you devised the best way to control me? How hard was it, to keep up the act so I'd love you like a benevolent grandfather?' He growls, this time with true rage.

His voice quiets again. When he speaks again it's dispassionately, in the cold, impersonal tone dream-Harry started with. There is a hint of disdain there, a mocking tone that grates on his nerves and makes him want to defend himself. He refuses to answer, though. He might have to endure these dreams, but he's not going to encourage them.

'So many lies… I guess in the end, that's what it boils down to, right? Little pieces in your chessboard, with no more importance than the role played in your next move. You and your god complex. And that muddled excuse of the Greater Good.' He draws air quotes around that word, and that movement somehow emphasizes the stillness in him. The real Harry always fidgeted. 'If only those around you knew what it meant. If I had to venture a guess, I'd say your Greater Good has killed more people than Voldemort has, what with you sacrificing pawns all over the place and Grindelwald wielding it to justify his war. You hope to weave a complex tapestry with the threads you unraveled from our lives. Do you truly think that, once you step back and watch this whole mess from another perspective, there will appear another image, greater, perfect, in which this will all fit seamlessly?' He asks, hatefully hurling his words at the Headmaster, mocking him. 'Your tapestry is woven in chaos, in pain and fear, in lies. It is swiftly unraveling under your watchful eyes, and there is nothing you can do to stop it.'

Dumbledore barely manages to hold back a shiver as the space around them shifts, echoing the young man's emotions.

'That holier-than-thou attitude of yours is what infuriates me the most. Peering from behind your glasses, like you can't possibly understand why I'd be upset about any of your manipulations. "You disappoint me, Harry, my boy. Search for the right path. Try to redeem yourself, come back to the light. I forgive you". You said all that, remember? Back when I was still in a cell, waiting for my trial. You forgive me.' He spits the words. Albus wants to speak up, say he didn't mean it like that. Remus was there, he had a part to play. Doesn't he understand that?

'Do you think _I_ will ever forgive you? You clearly underestimate the legacy I get from Voldemort.' Dumbledore chokes on the tea he'd started sipping in a brave attempt to feign normality. That is new. How did he…?

'Oh, yes, I know everything about your precious little secret; I'm Tom Riddle's sodding grandson, yadayadayada. Maybe I should have seen him as the grandfatherly figure instead, huh? But no, for some reason I did as my Gryffindor side demanded. Should have listened to the side of me the hat wanted to place in Slytherin. Think only about my own gain, look out for myself, and never look back. Shouldn't have let anyone use me, should have played the puppeteer instead of the puppet. And yet those Gryffindor standards you made such a damned good job of instilling in me demanded I risk everything to become the Savior of the Wizarding World. I spent months training, exhausted till I could move no more, brushing death more than once. I knew what I was up against, and every second counted.' This, too, is news. At least he doesn't think he's heard it before. Did Harry…? But no, this is just a dream. It can't be true.

Harry seems calm again, and it worries him. Did he miss something? His mind doesn't feel quite as sharp as usual lately. Lack of sleep, of course.

'I was at last ready to confront the bastard who killed my parents. I was ready. And you, idiotic, moronic useless bureaucrats of the Ministry of Magic put me under arrest before I could execute him. You took me to a slow, painful death when all this could have been avoided with just three tiny drops of veritaserum. And now you want me to save you? Not a snowball's chance in hell.' He seems content. Should he? Albus doesn't think so. He's going to die. He shouldn't be happy. 'I will have my revenge. I will die, and I will leave you this war, my blood staining your hands, an innocent man condemned by his friends, by his mentor and family.'

He stays silent for a couple of minutes, enjoying the troubled look, however slight, that now adorns Dumbledore's features, and then he goes in for the kill.

'You always thought yourself above them. Brighter than your plain mother, smarter than your foolish brother, better than your father with his reckless prejudice. Whole in a way your sister would never be. Faster than your peers at Hogwarts. More powerful than Gellert. Wiser than any of the men that surround you. Real, indispensable, in a way they are not.' Albus wonders how he can know that, forgetting for a moment this is a dream. He's never told anyone, not even Gellert. 'Or so you like to think. But no lie lives on forever, Chessmaster. Soon, very soon, the world will know. They will see you for what you are, an old man with more mistakes than victories, a master manipulator that got tangled in his own strings. They'll know about Adriana, and Gellert, and Tom Riddle. About Sirius Black, and Remus, and Serverus Snape. About me. All your failed projects, all your mistakes, laid out for the world to see.'

He leans against the stones, carefree. When he speaks after that he's almost idle, and Albus prays this dream is coming to a close. He wants to wake up.

'Honestly, I miss the school. Back at Hogwarts, if you were back-stabbed, you knew who to blame. Slytherins really are a convenient scapegoat. Nowadays, well, the ones most likely to stab you in the back are those who swore to fight by your side.'

With a flowing gesture of his hand the fog surrounding them lifts, and they are suddenly able to see the deep precipice running just a couple of feet to their right. In the field below them a vicious fight is taking place, bathed in blood, screams of pain the only sound that reaches their ears.

'Look at your work, Dumbledore. Observe the world you have created. You have destroyed the Wizarding's World last hope of salvation. Putrefaction will take over and we will all rot; not even our corrupted bones will be left to cry over. Our world will be torn down to its very foundations. Contemplate your masterpiece, Chessmaster. Why don't you take a lemon drop? The wait won't be long.'


	4. Ron Weasley

**Ron Weasley**

Ron hits the boxing bag, left arm trembling, trying to unload the fury coursing through him. He's covered in sweat and his muscles scream in pain –he's been spending a bit too much time with the bag lately, but it's the only place where he can release his hatred and rage now. Auror Grouson, one of the trainee supervisors, had taken him aside a few weeks ago and made very clear to him, in a no-nonsense rumbling voice the man was well known for, that if he put another toe out of line he'd be out of the force so fast he'd need a pensieve to get what happened.

He jabs at the bag, follows with a cross and remembers to exhale right before each hit. He's been overdoing it a bit lately, but at least his game is improving.

He wasn't that bad, he thinks with a hook to the bag, but Auror Grouson had a stick up his ass when it came to "unjustified use of force against criminals", and he wasn't the only one.

It's all that bastard's fault anyway. Always is. That idiot with a Merlin's complex, always sticking his nose into other people's business, hoarding attention he hadn't earned. Well, that's all over now, isn't it?

The vicious jab that follows that thought rocks the bag, and Ron keeps his fists down and by his side, waiting for it to stop. He's learnt the hard way what happens when you don't, and he doesn't need more eyes on him right now. He ignores the curious looks from his fellow trainees, taking deep breaths and doing some light footwork to occupy himself until he can go back to punching the anger away.

The bag stills and he tries a 1-2-3 combo, jab-cross-hook and repeat. His breath is short, throat burning when he breathes in after each hit, but he doesn't care. He needs this.

And it's all that trice-cursed Potter's fault.

 

Fours hours later he emerges from the training room. He's been logging a lot of time lately, trying to get that bastard out of his head. Maybe if he exhausts himself enough he'll stop having those dreams. Maybe if he hits the bag enough times he'll stop feeling as though he's about to explode.

He dines alone, as usual. He's twenty-three and still single. Potter's fault, again. Hermione had broken up with him less than a month after the trial. He'd made a few half-hearted attempts at dating after that that never amounted to anything, and a few one-night-stands, but Britain is a small community and there aren't many women still single and willing to do the no-strings-attached thing.

The grilled chicken he got from the Leaky Cauldron feels sour in his mouth and twists in his stomach. Grouson told him to stay away from the training rooms for a while. Ron knows he's doubled the program's recommended hours a couple of times, but it's not that bad. He needs it. Why can't they just let him be?

He drops the plate in the sink, hands trembling, and it shatters. He's more careful with the glass –there's only so many times you can cast _reparo_ before it stops working, and he only has two of those left.

When he slips into bed that night he's still thinking about Potter. He bets Grouson would have _loved_ Potter. Somehow, his life still seems to revolve around The-Boy-Who-Lived-and-wouldn't-shut-up-about-it. Always calling attention to himself, even though he's Muggle-raised and ignorant of the most basic things, and he isn't powerful, or intelligent, or wise. Always getting them into trouble, putting them in danger. And then he'd stopped talking to them, ignored them, even though Ron and Hermione had put up with him for years. Potter had always been conceited, thinking he was so much better than anybody else (Mr. Rules-aren't-for-me Potter, Youngest-Seeker-in-a-century Potter, Almost-got-my-friends- _killed_ -and-got-sixty-points-in-reward Potter) but that was the straw that broke the Griffin's back. And then he'd had the gall to turn out a Dark Wizard. Well, Ron couldn't say he was surprised by that. Outraged, yes, but not surprised. It was just like Potter to throw everything they'd done for him back in their hadn't understood, because for all her encyclopaedic knowledge she missed the most obvious things, but Harry was a _parselmouth_. The school seemed to have forgotten that over the years, but Ron remembered. And he knew he wasn't the only one.

He was always showing off too, buying the most expensive things and flaunting his wealth around. He'd even given the twins the Triwizard Tournament's prize so they could open their stupid joke shop, but he couldn't spend a single knut on his best friend. Who cared if Ron couldn't take Hermione out on a proper date, right? It's not like Harry needed the money anyways, but he couldn't help Ron out, it's not like they'd been best friends for ages or anything.

He was always Mr. Perfect, basking in admiration he hadn't earned, Dumbledore's pet, the Wizarding World's favoured star. Well, that's all over now, isn't it? He'd always been an outsider, anyways, so it made sense that he'd been pushed aside. Maybe he'd fared better if he had at least bothered to become part of their community, but that was too much to ask of Perfect-Potter.

Ron's still ranting when his eyelids turn heavy and he falls into a restless slumber…

 

The first thing he notices upon waking up is that it's cold. He's freezing, body trembling, and the wind wraps around his throat and makes it hard to breathe, like daggers are trying to make their way out from the inside.

A pit-patter of feet near his head makes him open his eyes just in time to see the rat scurrying towards a nearby dumpster. He sits with a start, taking in his surroundings in disbelief. Ron doesn't understand what he's doing in that dirty alley, lying among the waste like a beggar. When he looks for his wand he realizes he's covered in rags, filthy, skeletal in a way he's only seen in the vagrants that sometimes littler Knockturn Alley.

'Pathetic.' The voice, filled with disdain, startles him out of his shock, but he can't make himself look. It sounds so familiar… 'You are a disgrace, Ron. Always second-best, a nobody, but look at yourself now. You're nothing but a street mutt. Trash. You're pitiful.' The words feel like a spear through the gut.

He manages to turn his head and look, and it's the hardest thing he's ever done. What he sees doesn't make any sense. Ron wants to cry, but he doesn't know why. Harry's there, in all his glory, black silky hair tied back in the traditional Lord style, face twisted in distaste, dressed in impeccable luxurious robes and power emanating from him in almost visible waves. Ron wishes he could go a couple rounds with his bag.

'You're not real.' He mutters. It feels like he's begging, but it's the truth. He _knows_ it's true. 'You're in jail, I know you are, I saw. I saw them take you away.' His voice is hoarse with disuse. Breathing hurts, every word out of his mouth hurts, but he has to say it.

Harry doesn't seem to care. His laughter fills the empty alley, and Ron struggles not to flinch.

'In jail? Moi? Oh, please Ron, don't make me laugh. I'm the Lord of a prestigious family. The press eats out of my hand. I'm the Saviour, their Chosen One. They all love me. Do you really think they'd just imprison me, as if I were a simple commoner? Rules don't apply to me, remember? I'm The-Boy-Who-Lived. I'm a star.'

Ron's shaking all over now, but he still manages to push the words out.

'No, no, you're not here. You're in Azkaban, forgotten. _I'm_ a star, the best auror trainee of my promotion. It's me in the Prophet now. It's me they care about.'

The soft chuckles seem menacing somehow, and Ron folds into himself, bravado forgotten.

'You? An auror? Ron, Ron, Ron.' Harry shakes his head, amused. 'You're nothing Ron. Big brother Bill is an expert curse-breaker, a leader in his field. Charlie works for the biggest Dragon Reserve in all of Europe. Percy has climbed through the ranks at the Ministry and might even be a shoo-in for next Minister for Magic. Fred and George, well, they own the most profitable company in Britain, a power-house of innovation with contracts in everything, from every-day objects to the Hit Wizards and Unspeakables; they are the fourth and fifth wealthiest purebloods in Great Britain according to the latest rankings, if I'm not mistaken. Ginny has been Captain of the Holyhead Harpies for two seasons now and remains so far undefeated. I'm rich, famous, and widely adored. Hermione has established herself as a highly sought-after independent researcher. But you Ron, you've done nothing. Everyone's forgotten about you. Who wants the leftovers when they can choose among us? You aren't good at anything, you're not powerful, rich or intelligent, you're not famous, or skilled. You're not important. You've been left behind. No-one remembers you, Ron. No-one cares. Did you really think people would bother to look at you twice if it weren't for me?'

Ron hugs his knees to his chest, rocking back and forth. He keeps muttering under his breath, but nothing changes. He wants to go back. He wants it to stop.

 

Suddenly, the cold intensifies, feels almost physical against his skin, rattles from within like poison spreading through his veins. He looks around and the alley's gone. The grey stone walls are familiar. Azkaban. Apprehension runs through him but he's too busy being triumphant to care.

'You!' He points wildly at the other prisoner sharing his cell. 'I knew it! You're in Azkaban. You're just another prisoner. You are nothing. Not me. I was right!'

Harry looks just as powerful as before, but the expensive robes have been replaced by the Azkaban uniform, and Ron thinks that it suits him better. His smile is predatory. Ron doesn't like it as much as he does the uniform.

'You have one minute to run, Ron. Then… I'm gonna get you.' His voice is mocking, lips curved in a feral smirk.

Ron stills. He doesn't want to admit it to himself, but his instincts are screaming at him to run away. Harry looks dangerous, sounds dangerous. But Ron's no coward.

The power emanating from him morphs, shadows spreading though it until the only thing he can see are his venom-bright green eyes.

'Forty-one, forty-two…'

Ron runs. The corridors, filled with shadows and never more than half-lit look all the same to him. He's lost and he knows it, but he doesn't stop running. He doesn't know whether he's heading towards the exit or just plunging deeper inside the prison, but he has to keep running. If he doesn't… Harry will catch him. He doesn't know what that means, but the thought spurs him, makes his strides longer and pushes away the doubt.

He sneaks backward glances as he runs, trying to figure out if Harry is catching up, but in the nearly impenetrable darkness he can see little more than the arches of the narrow passageway he's in. He stumbles and falls to the floor, knees smashing against the rough stones. He's shaking, the cold of Azkaban weakening his body and gripping his mind tight, whispers of memories teasing his ears but never quite loud enough to hear. Everything hurts. He tries to stand up but his legs fail him. A sudden inhuman laughter makes his turn around, but there's nothing but shadow to see, a dark tide slowly rising to swallow up the world. There's breathing, not his –he thinks he's forgotten how to breathe until his chest heaves and he's suddenly alive again, dizzy- and this time when he turns around there is something other than the dark, a figure. A woman. Tangled brown hair falling in a glorious mess of curls down her back, familiar warm eyes that he now finds empty, full of nothing. Indifferent.

'Hermione, you have to help me, please. Harry's here, he's looking for me.' He begs, reaching out to her. It's going to be all right. Hermione will cook up a plan, or know a spell to make everything go back. She'll make it right.

She looks down, eyebrows momentarily furrowed, contemptuous.

'You're no-one. You're not important.' She mutters distractedly, eyes turning away from him as she walks back into the dark.

'Hermione! No, Hermione! You have to help me!'

He tries to stand up, but his legs won't move.

'She's not coming back, Ron.' The words seem kind but the voice is cruel, and a shiver runs down his back. From the shadows emerges his pursuer, green eyes tinted with hate. 'I think it's time to settle the score, Weasley. _Crucio_.'

His body is on fire, raked by a thousand burning knives, and at the same time frozen by Azkaban's preternatural cold. He writhes on the ground, trying to dominate the pain consuming him. He bites his lips in an attempt to keep the screams in, trying to hold onto the ends of his tattered pride. His mouth fills with blood but he doesn't let go.

Harry smiles, lips curved in a smile that is both predatory and satisfied.

Soon Ron's tortured howls fill the air. Harry's smile becomes wider, wand flicking almost lazily to chain in a second spell.

 

Ron jolts awake, and he can't stop the tremors as he pounces on his night stand. His auror badge is there, and he holds it tight to his chest, pressing against his skin so that it leaves a red mark. The cold metal helps him breathe, get himself back under control.

He drops back against the headboard, bathed in cold sweat, and tries to relax enough to go back to sleep. Soon after that he gives up and rises from bed reluctantly, heading towards the shower. He works the shampoo into his hair as the tries to ignore a thought that won't leave him alone, but it's no use: he'll be back to his personal little slice of hell tomorrow night, and he's aware of that every single waking moment.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So... This chapter is a lot heavier on the 'revenge' than the rest. Hope I haven't overdone it, because honestly I was feeling bad for Ron at some points. What about you? Did you think it was a little too much?
> 
> I'd love to hear any feedback you have on this story, and please feel free to share any ideas and/or request you may have for further punishments. Any ideas will be really appreciated!


	5. Neville Longbottom

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Aaand finally, a bit of plot -if you squint. Hope you enjoy today's chapter!

**Neville Longbottom**

Neville steps into the house, whistling. Locking the door with a lazy twist of his wand he lets himself fall on the sofa with a tired sigh. He's completely exhausted. It's an almost pleasurable sensation, the way his muscles seem to tighten and stretch at the same time after a day of hard work, a subtle warmth in his extremities, but it's nice. A little reminder of the work he's done.

He lets his eyes close, trying to relax, maybe even sleep a bit before dinner.

But as usual, quiet and calm had no place in the house for more than a few minutes. Not since Luna, the Creevey brothers and Dobby moved in, anyways. The old house could use some shaking, that's what grandmother had said, and Neville agreed. So did the Weasley twins, a menace if there ever was one, if the frequency of their visits was any indication.

The explosion originated in the potions lab, and for a second Neville worries for Luna and Dennis, who aren't always as careful as they could be when working in their experiments. A green light soon zips through the room, putting his mind at ease, followed by an enthusiastic "Did you see that? We  _must_  do that again! Add more rubhard!". They'd installed the security measure the fifth time Neville and Colin had complained about racing upstairs to check that both potioneers were still alive and with all limbs intact.

Accepting that he won't get a moment of peace until he goes to sleep, he rises from the comfy sofa and heads for the kitchen. Dinner won't prepare itself!

Dobby usually takes care of lunch, Colin takes breakfast and Neville makes dinner. He's surprisingly good at cooking, given how disastrous he is in potions, just as comfortable in the kitchen as he is in the greenhouses. Yet Dennis, who is a genius at potions, had blown the kitchen to smithereens twice before Luna became fed up and set up a barrier that prevented him from getting close to the appliances.

 

'Neville, my dear friend, you've outdone yourself. That was the best rag pie I've ever had.'

Neville blushes at the compliment but waves it away, used to Dennis' over-the-top excitement for anything involving food or potions.

'Dennis' right, Nev. It was even better than dad's, and you know my dada makes the best rag pie in the country.'

'Neville sir cooks good, for a human.' Dobby pipes in, always happy to tease the young man.

He smiles at that, but doesn't argue. He knows better.

They wait in silence while Luna picks up – she's not allowed to cook anymore because of her creative use of ingredients, which may or may have not resulted in a hazy, drug-induced hallucination that took most of a memorable afternoon last fall.

Once they are all sitting at the table, looking at each other over the rims of their chocolate mugs –a tradition Luna had insisted on, and no-one really minded- Luna takes the lead in a ritual they've been performing since Harry was incarcerated.

'Do we have any news on Harry?'

Colin clears his throat nervously.

'Nothing on my front. They've rejected my petition, and the private investigator hasn't found anything useful yet.'

There's a tired sigh from Luna, but she expected that.

'Nothing here either.'

'Dobby's had no luck this time. Dobby will keep trying.'

'Don't look at me, guys. I haven't been able to get through the Ministry's security measures around the archive.'

'Well, Hanna Abbott approached me today, you know, that Hufflepuff prefect? She was in my year.' Neville looks around the table, glad he can share this with his friends. It's not a lot, but at least it's more than they've been getting lately. 'She says she's damned tired of looking for a way to get Harry out of Azkaban, but that she's not tired enough to give up. She wants to see if we can coordinate our efforts. Turns out Justin, Terry Boot and her have been working on it on and off for the past three years. Daphne Greengrass, a Slytherin, has been helping them out, making things easier for them in the Ministry, but they haven't made much progress. You know how it goes. They're coming over on Friday, so if you can take the day off please do so. If you can't we'll catch you up to speed in the next meeting.'

'Well, at least you got somewhere.' Luna sounds determined, a bit of hope returning. Most people have given up by now, and it's good to hear that some are still willing to fight for their friend. 'All right, no sense moping around now, time to sleep! There's nothing we can do tonight, let's rest and come back stronger tomorrow. Good night guys, I'm off to sleep.' She waves goodbye with her left hand to a chorus of "goodnight" as she covers a yawn with her right.

'I think Luna's right. I'll see you all tomorrow.'

'Dobby will be going to sleep as well.'

'See you guys tomorrow. We'll be staying a bit longer, right Colin?'

'Yeah, we really should work on that project we're supposed to be doing. Night Nev, night Dobby!'

 

When –at last!- Neville gets to bed, his body feels like it's fraying at the seams. His brain won't stop working, though. They've been fighting for four long years to get Harry out of Azkaban, using all available means –both legal and illegal, something he's not proud of but necessary in the face of a corrupt government-, but nothing seems to work. It's never enough.

His mouth twists into a smile as he remembers a phrase that has turned bittersweet with time: "I'm worth twelve of you, Malfoy!". He'd never had the courage to say that if it hadn't been for Harry.

He doesn't understand how the others could give up so easily. Harry's a great wizard, one of the best people he's ever known. Greater than Dumbledore, in his own way; more powerful than Voldemort; braver even than Godric Gryffindor, in the face of certain pain and uncertain battle; and so kind and loyal that Helga Hufflepuff would have fought to have him in her house. And yes, he was sometimes sneakier than Salazar Slytherin himself.

'We'll get you out, Harry. I don't know how, but we will. I promise.'

With that last thought he falls asleep.

 

The air around him feels calm, like weeding around the roots of asphodel in the evening. When he opens his eyes there's nothing but green around his feet, and above that, the red, green, blue and yellow stands of the Hogwarts Quidditch Pitch. He tilts his head to enjoy the sun and wonders if he's dreaming of the pitch because that's where he stood up to Malfoy, back in first year. It's one of the good memories, but he doesn't remember it being quite so warm back then.

There's a chuckle coming from the green and silver stands, carried by the wind. With a shrug Neville starts climbing the stairs, curious.

Before he gets to the top, the stranger's voice reaches him, and it's a voice he wouldn't forget in a million years. He can feel his heartbeat in his ears as he hurries to the top row.

'I've always wondered what the field looked like from here.' Muses Harry, bright eyes fixed on the field below. His black hair falls in a wild mess around his head and shoulders, like he's just gotten off a broom, and he looks tan, healthier than Neville has ever seen him. It makes his green eyes stand out more. He doesn't look like he's spent the past four years in Azkaban, and Neville wonders if he'll ever look like that.

He drops in the seat next to his with a sigh, shoulder to shoulder.

'This is just a dream, right?'

Harry smiles and turns towards him, and for a second the mask cracks and he can see the quiet desperation underneath.

'It might be a dream, Nev, but never assume it's  _just_  a dream.'

'How…?' he starts to ask. 'Forget it. I should be used to this kind of thing by now, after all this time. It's good to see you.'

'Good to hear, mate. How's life treating you?' he asks, and his smile is mischievous. Neville's never seen that one before, but it suits him. 'I've heard Luna and you are living together.'

He groans, and knows his face is now sporting a beautiful Weasley red.

'Yes, Dobby, Colin, Dennis and her moved in the old house a couple years ago. I guess I can't complain –life is never boring around those four. I managed to set up the greenhouses, remember we talked about that? When was it, fourth year?'

'Right after Christmas, yes. I don't think I'd ever seen you so excited.' There's fondness in Harry's eyes. 'I'm glad you did it. You'll be a success, mark my words.'

He goes back to contemplating the pitch for a bit, and Neville leans back and enjoys the silence. It reminds him of Hogwarts. Harry could be loud and boisterous sometimes, especially around Ron, but when it was just the two of them they would sit in silence and just enjoy the quiet companionship. He misses that. Luna, Dennis, Colin and Dobby are great, but none of them are particularly given to reflection.

'Nev?'

'Yes, Harry?'

'You realize you're not fooling anyone, right? You like Luna.'

'Of course I like her. She's great.' He manages to get through that line without stuttering, but Harry's admonishing glance has him backing up. He's never had to lie to Harry before, no point in starting now. 'How did you know?'

The black-haired boy smiles mysteriously, once more turning his eyes towards the pitch.

'A piece of advice, mate. Ask her out.'

He barely contains a snort at that.

'Luna is special. I don't want to make things uncomfortable around the house.'

'Hey, have I ever steered you wrong? She  _is_  special. If she's not interested in you that way, Luna won't make it difficult for you. But what if she is? Are you ready to miss out on that?'

They go back to silence after that. Neville thinks that maybe, just maybe, Harry has a point. Harry's always reminded him of lovage (1), actually, with his ability to unintentionally induce hot-headedness and recklessness in those around him, bolstering them and making them braver. It's one of the things Neville likes about him.

And it feels wrong to miss out on something because he isn't brave enough to go for it when Harry has no choice. Ron, and Hermione, and Ginny, and Dumbledore, and Sirius have taken it from him. All the people who turned their backs on him, who locked him away.

He doesn't realize just how angry he is until the words start spilling out.

'I hate them.' It's just a mutter at first, unseeing eyes fixed on the field. 'I hate them all. Roaming free with their happy, self-satisfied lives while you rot in Azkaban. They are nothing but traitors, the worst sort of rat there is, and they've gotten away scot-free. They are celebrated. Whenever I see them –in the Ministry, or Diagon Alley, anywhere- I want to spit on them. I want to punch them, and keep smashing my fists into them until there's nothing left but a bloody stain on the floor, because a simple AK would be too merciful an end for them.' His voice tapers out. 'I've never told anyone. I don't know if they'd understand, but I'd rather not risk it.' It feels a bit better, like purging venom from his soul. 'I hate having to hold back when I pass them on the street, hate that they get to keep living their lives like nothing happened.' He breathes in and out, slowly, trying to calm down again. There's a lull, and then the final confession, the last bit he's been keeping to himself. 'I've never hated so much before, Harry.'

And he knows hate, the same way Harry does. Hate has been a childhood friend, an old lullaby.

A shoulder bumps his. Of course Harry understands.

'Don't worry, Nev. They will face their punishment.' He sounds so sure. Neville wishes he could share that certainty, but it's starting to look like they never will. He doesn't want to think they'll get away with it. Bellatrix at least had been incarcerated for what she'd done. He has no such restraints to hold his hate back when it comes to them.

Harry looks away again. Neville doesn't worry. He knows Harry won't judge him.

'Some have already started to feel the cold of the dementors, every night, haunting them the way it haunts me. Their worst nightmares will torment them, without end or rest in sight, when the night is so dark and the cold so intense that their own cowardly lies can't protect them anymore. Night after night they'll be forced to relive a hell not even Azkaban can match.' He meets his eyes then, and Neville doesn't recoil, because he's felt the same thirst for vengeance himself. 'When you look at their faces, when you bump into them in the street, remember that. Behind their perfect masks they are crumbling, suffering the same destiny they chose to condemn me to. They haven't escaped their punishment.'

His body trembles at the vehemence that colors his friend's words, but a knot in his gut comes apart and he breathes easier now. It may be horrible, and many might not agree with that, but he's just…glad. Relieved. Maybe that makes him a bad person, but he thinks he can live with that.

They sit in silence, each lost to their own thoughts. It feels a bit like being back at Hogwarts, and they both need that.

There's a tug in Neville's mind, and it feels like his brain is trying to plunge roots back into reality.

Harry stands, pulling him up as well, and drags him into a quick hug. There's a smile dancing around his mouth, and he seems younger somehow, calmer.

Neville barely catches the last words out of his friend's mouth as reality fights to reassert itself.

'Don't forget to ask her out, Nev!'

 

He sits up in bed, energized. He hasn't felt this good in ages.

And maybe it's time to take Harry's advice and be a Gryffindor about it.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> (1) Lovage (Levisticum officinale) is a plant that's been used in herbal medicines for centuries. According to one of Harry's school books, lovage is "most efficacious in the inflaming of the brain", and is used as an ingredient in Confusing and Befuddlement Draughts. (Harry Potter Wiki, wiki/Lovage)
> 
> So... There's no revenge in this chapter, but we get a glimpse of the allies Harry has on the outside.
> 
> I'd love to hear any feedback you have on this story, and please feel free to share any ideas and/or request you may have for further punishments. Any ideas will be really appreciated! :)


	6. Hermione Granger

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Today we get to see how Hermione is doing. Hope you enjoy this chapter!

**Hermione Granger**

Hermione signs the last form with a flourish and sets it aside, rubbing her eyes. A quick look at the grandfather clock tells her she's once more worked way past her office hours, and she wonders if it's worth it, going home, or if it's better to just conjure a bed for the night. It wouldn't be the first time, but her boss is starting to throw odd side-glances at her when she comes in to find her already stationed at her desk, hair in disarray and hands spotted with the ink that flows freely from her carefully brandished quill.

Hermione is very efficient, but the department has about three years worth of pending paperwork (two years and fifteen weeks, at her current rate) and she's the only one who takes it seriously enough to work through it all. She has already dug her way through three cabinets with expanding charms on them, but there's always more; always one more file, one more paper that requires research, another hoop to jump through and yet another old, dry tome to peruse for law changes and inconsistencies and exemptions. She's starting to hate the sight of her parchment-covered desk.

She used to like this. The thought of research used to fill her with excitement. She remembers walking around dusty shelves, fingers poised above spine of whichever book caught her fancy, falcon-like eyes focused on finding the best of the battered tomes that filled Hogwarts' library. She remembers fondly entire days burning through books the way Ron worked his way through breakfast, her notes cramped in the tiniest writing she could manage, filling rolls of parchment with quotes and ideas and cross-references and all kinds of data.

When did research become a  _chore_?

She can't quite pinpoint the day, but it was long before she left Hogwarts. Long before she buried herself in work in a cramped office in the recesses of the Ministry of Magic. And just a little bit before she broke things off with Ron.

Maybe she  _can_  pinpoint the day, down to the exact hour when she'd stopped loving what she did. But she doesn't want to. She has promised herself she'll keep those thoughts confined to her personal time. She knows she'll pick them up again, like a cloak, as soon as she leaves the office, but that kind of thinking has no place during her work hours.

 

She should go home. It's Tuesday, after all, and Teresa is always particularly chatty and inquisitive on Wednesday mornings. Hermione doesn't know why –there must be something in her boss's routine that drives that change- but the fact remains that she is much more likely to be reprimanded for working late on Wednesdays.

A quick flick of her wand removes the ink spots, a swish sorts the rolls of parchment into a semblance of order, and with a little twirl that resets the wards over her desk she's ready to go. The walk to the Atrium doesn't take long, although her ministry-issued floo password takes almost fifteen minutes to clear. It's not uncommon, since service is always slow this time of the night, and while it's a necessary precaution it's still annoying.

 

The minute she steps into her living room the doubts come back. She ignores the thoughts circling her head while she heats her dinner. When she first set up her apartment she'd chosen a distinctly muggle kitchen, partly as defiance to the more conservative wings of the Ministry and partly because she isn't all that comfortable around magical kitchens. She still thinks wizarding kitchens are a bit overrated –case in point, unless you enslave house-elves there really isn't a way to instantly prepare a meal the magical way, a feat muggle microwaves are perfectly capable of.

She eats mechanically, not really tasting the food, and this time there is no excuse to hold the thoughts back.

Hermione Granger, the so-called smartest witch of her generation, probably the smartest witch to set foot in Hogwarts in decades –she wonders how she could have been so stupid, so  _blind_.

She remembers with mixed feelings her first year at Hogwarts, recklessly trying to save the Philosopher's Stone before it was too late.  _"Brilliant,"_  she had said, brain working in overdrive. " _This isn't magic - it's logic - a puzzle. A lot of the greatest wizards haven't got an ounce of logic, they'd be stuck in here forever."(1)_

And yet, she'd failed. She'd always prided herself on being rational, on being thorough; she'd always thought herself so smart for checking several sources and taking all possibilities into account, no matter how distasteful they may seem. Even when that had provoked her friends' anger –a certain polished firebolt comes to mind- she hadn't stopped. And yet… she had failed. She had let herself be fooled. A part of her had wanted to believe that Harry hadn't betrayed them, that the boy she had grown to love like a brother wasn't capable of turning his back on them – _on her_ \- that she hadn't been wrong about him. And that wish had clouded her mind and made her blind to the truth. She hadn't seen the signs. She hadn't wanted to.

And once she'd realized that he _had_ , her surrender was quick, brutally so, and she'd given in without a fight, possessed by a quiet, desperate sort of fury.  _How could he?_

_Were they not good enough? How could he lie to them, and deceive them, and betray them? Why? Why would he do that to her?_

The rage had carried her through the trial, through the verdict, through the empty weeks that followed.

And then… then she'd been consumed by the voices that whispered in her dreams and eventually made their home inside her head.

Did she choose wrong? Was Harry a traitor, had she been blind to it from the start, too happy and hopeful at finally having a friend that she'd chosen to disregard everything else?

Or was she the one to betray a friend?

Because when her mind descends into the misty reality of dreams she can't help but think she was wrong. Can't help but know that Harry doesn't have blood on his hands. Can't help but realize she'd committed not one, but two errors of logic: she had not supported Harry, she hadn't believed him.

Or had she trusted him too much? Had she given him too much of her trust? Was she simply shying from the truth of his betrayal because it hurt too much to think she'd been wrong?

Her mind, once organized and sure, perfectly balanced, has turned into a tangled mesh of confusion, guilt and rage.

Because at night, when remorse consumes her and she can't avoid the vicious gnaw of guilt, when her mind can almost see Harry's innocence… she can't help but doubt herself.

Where's her loyalty now? Her sharp intellect?

She has betrayed, in the worst way she can imagine, the one who not so long ago saved her life. The first person to offer his hand in friendship, to value her, looking past the off-putting know-it-all exterior to see the real Hermione, all of eleven years old, eyes scared and awed and full of things and thoughts and words.

But… what if she hadn't?

At night she couldn't help but believe in Harry, and that cut her more deeply than anything else could have. Because, if Harry was innocent…

_What had she done?_

She holds back tears as she cleans up after herself and gets ready for bed.

 

She feels caught, like she's still struggling with the inner fight she should have fought years ago. The fire that once burned in her soul, the ambition that spurred her on, her conviction, all of that had banished into smoke.

She lies awake in bed, unable to quiet her mind long enough to go to sleep. It's nothing new.

She'd managed to hate Harry, for a little while. Long enough to get him locked up. Dumbledore had guided her through the trial, and overwhelmed and worn down she'd testified against him. Dumbledore was a wise man, the most intelligent wizard in Great Britain. The greatest wizard in Britain couldn't be wrong, could he?

But then the days passed, and as weeks went by she just couldn't do it. Couldn't hate Harry.

And she'd gotten scared. Frozen by a paralyzing, profound fear. Doubt rose in her mind, and the very thought that Harry might be innocent terrified her.

Because… what if she was wrong?

That thought, the light and yet somehow profound intuition that whispered Harry might have been unjustly accused and imprisoned, crushed her.

She couldn't endure her then boyfriend's heated rants about "that filthy traitor". Couldn't bear to hear another word from Ginny about how she'd always known Harry was dark, evil, the  _too much like Riddle_  she would mutter vindictively. Couldn't take another of Dumbledores' wise and piercing gazes, which now seemed empty and fake.

And, above all, she couldn't stand herself.

Couldn't take the guilt, horrible and throbbing, eating away at her insides like acid, tearing her every thought apart and ripping the fabric of her reality.

So she'd run, withdrew, hidden in her work as she'd done as a kid, borrowing coping methods from the muggle world that had seen her grown. But she knew it hadn't been in the muggle world, or in her classes at Hogwarts, that she'd grown and became the woman she is; it had been next to Harry, fighting against chance and insurmountable odds, from the very moment they'd become friends. Every time she'd scolded her friends about their studies, every hour she'd spent researching to solve a mystery on which their very lives might depend, every second she'd felt alive…every moment when she'd managed to glimpse a small grain of transcendence.

**And she owed it all to Harry.**

That thought wouldn't leave her alone. She couldn't think around it, couldn't set it aside. She owed Harry her very life, everything she was, all she had achieved.

And how had she repaid him?

With mistrust and accusations, helping the ones that were trying to lock him away.

Hermione doesn't need accusing dreams, ghostly fingers pointing at her in the silence of the night. She doesn't need otherworldly cold or magic tricks.

All you have to do is appeal to her logic, rouse her intelligence. And they'll do the rest. Nothing could hurt as much as knowing, even if only for a second, that she'd betrayed Harry. That she'd been  _wrong_.

For four years she's been trying to find in her heart the answer her mind is incapable of living her.

Was she wrong?

Four years she's been fighting a quiet but fierce battle against herself. Isolated, subdued, it feels like the world is holding its breath and time itself doesn't dare interrupt her, all waiting for the end of the merciless war taking place inside her.

And then, still sleepless at three am, she makes a decision.

 

_Was she wrong?_

It doesn't matter. She owes Harry her loyalty, come what may.

And even if it's not worth much now, he'll have it.

There's an old spark in her eyes as she leaves the bed, a familiar kind of fire inside her. It's time for her to do what she does best: research.

She can't leave Harry to rot in Azkaban.

And she knows who can help her find a solution.

Solving impossible problems, mysteries, traps, trials, secrets most of the world think legend, that's nothing new for her. It's like her whole life has been preparing her for this moment.

She has a goal.

And Hermione Granger always achieves her goals. Anything else would be unacceptable.

There's a quiet sound in the flat, the scratch of the quill against parchment, but for once her mind is silent. She'll go back to bed soon, to get her strength up before tackling the Ministry archives.

She has a feeling she won't have any trouble falling asleep.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> (1) Quote from Harry Potter and the Philosopher's Stone.
> 
> I'd love to hear any feedback you have on this story, and please feel free to share any ideas and/or request you may have for further punishments. I've used up all the original material will now start posting completely original chapters. Which I'm not nervous about, no sir. Riiight. Anyways, if you have any suggestions, as usual, I'll be happy to hear them :)
> 
> Have a nice day!


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